


Always Gotta Fuck the Mark

by Frostfire



Category: Fastlane
Genre: Dubious Consent, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-30
Updated: 2009-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10282496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: Van definitely had sex with Dallas.





	

Deaq finds Van in the Candy Store when he comes in that night. Four AM, again, and he is so _very_ not surprised. Van is staring at the bottle of vodka.

"Hey, man," says Deaq, "stay away from that Commie shit. Vodka did us both too much wrong already. Drink American."

"American," says Van, sounding like he's far away. Awesome. Van drives Deaq crazy when he gets like this. Not that Van doesn’t drive Deaq crazy all the rest of the time, too; Deaq’s doctor has had some things to say about his blood pressure lately, and it ain’t because of his cholesterol intake. "American," says Van again. "Okay. I think we got some tequila somewhere."

Deaq has to blink at that. "Man, you have been living in LA _too long_ if tequila’s the first _American_ liquor you think of. But if you want Jose, we'll have some Jose." Tequila is everywhere in Los Angeles. Tequila and Corona, and the cheaper _cerveza_ the college kids drink. Mexico is _right there_ , after all, and that’s only one of the ten thousand million things that TV leaves out of its Oscars-and-palm-trees LA picture. Deaq spent years seeing Hollywood only after it got piped to New York, blonde and plastic and weird. He missed the tequila, he’ll admit.

But Van's shaking his head. "I don't want anything. Not even tequila. Remember Dallas's fridge? Only plant-related item in his fridge was a lime."

Fucking Dallas. Deaq hates Dallas so much right now. He wishes he could either have liked the guy so he could mourn him honestly, or just gone all the way and stopped caring. "Come on, man,” he says to Van, “come sit down."

He tugs Van over to the couch, and they sit. Van's staring off at nothing, still, and Deaq _hates_ it when Van does this, because a pretty white-boy poser like Van should only ever be ridiculous like this, when he's trying to be deep. Impressed with himself, sunk in his own depression, rain dripping down the windowpanes, and all that shit—and Van has it _down_ , Van could walk through life with his own sad little soundtrack, some days.

But he feelsit, is the disgusting part. He sits there and he's in pain and Deaq always reaches a point where he can't roll his eyes or make fun or kick Van's ass out of it, because Van might be a pretty white-boy poser, but he hurts for the people he cares about, and what can you say to that but _I'm sorry_?

"I liked him too, man," says Deaq, which—"well, I don't know if I _liked_ him, but you know what I mean, he was good people. Sort of. Sometimes. He—"

“Fine, yeah, shut up, I get it,” says Van, showing a little life, finally. “He was a crazy motherfucker. He probably deserved what he got, but—” He stops, sinks back into himself a little.

“Guy could fuck, at least,” Deaq offers, expecting Van to laugh— _how_ many hours was it, under that fucking bed?—but what comes out is something only distantly related to a laugh, like maybe a laugh’s second cousin, the black sheep of the laugh-family. Van’s hurt-face is solidly in place, eyebrows down, mouth tight. Deaq frowns, puts a hand on Van’s shoulder. “Hey, man—you okay? Because—”

"I fucked him," Van interrupts, and Deaq stops.

"Uh," he says. “What?”

Van gets that little grin he gets when he knows he's driving Deaq crazy, pasted on over the hurt-face like some weird kindergarten art project. "I fucked him. Dallas.”

Deaq _knows_ he did not mishear that; the words were crystal-clear both times, but he somehow can’t keep himself from saying, “ _What_?” again.

“At our party, before he went loco with the cops thing.” Van stares off past Deaq’s right shoulder. “He hauled me into a bedroom, stuck his hand in my pants.”

Deaq tries to get his vocal chords together enough to tell Van to please, please stop talking. He can’t, though, and Van keeps going.

“ I told him to fuck off, but he didn't,” which makes sense, at least; when did Dallas ever listen to anything they said? And if Dallas was the only one—but Van’s still talking. “By the time we got done discussing it, I was halfway there and it was sort of pointless.” Van shrugs.

“ _Pointless_?” Deaq starts helplessly, but before he can explain just how _wrong_ Van is to assume that it’s okay to let random _psychotic armed men_ stick their hands in his pants—did Van not _get_ the bad touches talk back in kindergarten with everyone else?—before he can even _begin_ to explain all of this, Van’s grin tightens, sharpens, and he’s _still talking_.

“ And then again in the club,” he says, “before Nikolai showed up. When we went to the bathroom? He looked at me, I don't know." Van shakes his head, the grin fading. "I sucked him off."

That stops Deaq and his Stranger Danger lecture cold. His mouth is dry. Just—yesterday, the day before? he was arguing with Van because he didn't want to put his lips on another guy for CP-fucking-R. And Van just—he just—

"He was nice about it," Van says, reflectively. He’s lost his smile completely, like the memory of blowing Dallas has crowded everything else away, even fucking with Deaq’s head. Deaq is going to beat his head against the wall for this later, but he would rather Van be fucking with him.

Van shakes his head a little, focuses on reality again, and glances around, frowning. "Did we ever find that tequila?"

Deaq swallows, breathes. "No."

"Oh. Well, he was nice about it. Didn't just hold me down and fuck my mouth. He had good hands. God, I need a drink." Van shakes his head again, like he's trying to clear it.

“You know what,” says Deaq. “Because I like you so much, I will go find the tequila and bring it to you. I’m going right now.”

That brings a little bit of a grin back. “Don’t forget the lime and the salt. And remember the good shot glasses are in the cabinet behind the Ferrari. The _blue_ Ferrari, not the red one—” and now Van’s calling after him as he walks away. Deaq gives him the finger over his shoulder.

He takes his time getting everything together, breathes deeply, while his brain shrieks _cocksucking what the motherfucking fuck ._ Van’s in a weird place right now, obviously, and Deaq needs to slowly and gently guide him back away from Dallas’ world and back to sanity. He starts planning a rational, sanity-provoking speech while he sits back down and starts cutting the lime, pouring the tequila, handing Van the salt. He’s still planning through the first couple of shots, done in silence with no eye contact.

What comes out of his mouth instead, though, is, “Van, why does your stupid ass _always gotta fuck the mark_?” When he hears himself, he’s about ready to bite his tongue right off, because he had a _plan_ , right. But seriously. This is starting to seem like some kind of pathological _thing_ Van’s got.

Van laughs at that, but it’s soft and low, and it looks like it hurts. “I don’t know, Deaq. He looked at me. They look at me, sometimes, and I just—” He looks up, pretty white-boy eyes catching on Deaq, bright sad eyes. “He was more than a half-dirty psycho. Cassidy was more than a fence and a whore. Jade was more than a thief and a bitch. They’re _more_ , Deaq. They’re _people_ , and I couldn’t live with myself if I forgot that. And sometimes the only way to remember is to get close.”

Deaq sighs. “Yeah, I get it. It isn’t a psychological _disorder_ for me like it is for you, but I get it.”

Van’s mouth quirks. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

Deaq just shakes his head and raises his shot glass. “To Dallas?”

“To Dallas,” says Van, and drinks.

 


End file.
